


To Orr With Love

by foxsgloves



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, but IS it really unrequited? chinhands, loads of unrequited pining, my poor tree's dumb keysmash name bc everything else on the server was taken, rated t for spicy thoughts/dialogue, sylvari engineer pc, tree pen pals!!!!, wingwoman sieran
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23956549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxsgloves/pseuds/foxsgloves
Summary: Trahearne had said he enjoyed receiving letters. He’d said she could write to him if she liked, when they’d both departed the Grove. She keeps up correspondence with all her other friends from home, so why not him as well?The fact that she's in love with him won't cause any problems at all, surely.
Relationships: Trahearne/Female Player Character (Guild Wars)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 39





	To Orr With Love

**Author's Note:**

> I got immediately attached to Trahearne Guildwars during the sylvari personal story and then pestered my guild leader for literal months asking her when he was going to come back.
> 
> My poor sylvari has an unfortunate keysmash name because everything else on the server was taken. I thought about changing it for the purposes of this fic, but it just wouldn't be right. I like to think even the Pale Tree runs out of name ideas sometimes.

Iyslene sat at her cramped desk in her newly assigned Priory bunk, already stacked with precarious towers of books, and twisted her quill back and forth between her hands. Some of the feather fluff fell out. She resorted to cracking her knuckles instead.

Trahearne had said he enjoyed receiving letters. He’d said she could write to him if she liked, when they’d both departed the Grove together. Of course, he had told her this a mere day after he’d rebuffed her clumsy advances towards him, so clearly she’d gotten her wires crossed somewhere. Perhaps he was simply trying to be polite and let her down easy. For the Tree’s sake, she was cycle of dawn, this sort of thing supposed to come easily to her. 

“Turn your lamp off,” grumbled her fellow novice and new bunkmate, a big snow-white charr called Charybdis, who had to shove two spare bunks together to make enough room to curl up. “And can you turn yourself off while you’re at it?”

The rosy light pulsing and ebbing from Iyslene’s bark washed all the stone walls of the dormitory with a pinkish glow. “Oh. It doesn’t turn off.” 

“It doesn’t?” Charybdis lifted her big shaggy head with a guilty start. 

“Sorry,” Iyslene said, scooping up her journal, ink, and quill. “I’ll go to the library. And when I come back I’ll put a blanket over myself or something.”

“You don’t have to,” said Charybdis, resigned. “I like pink fine.”

Though it was long past dark, the halls of the priory were still bustling with activity. Unlike the cycles of the Grove, the people of Durmand could keep whatever hours they liked, as long as their reports came in on time. Iyslene passed a pair of asura in the midst of testing a tiny wheeled golem up and down the halls. A human scribe had fallen asleep in the middle of copying notes, smearing a print across her cheek.

Iyslene settled in at one of the spare desks in the novices’ library with a determined crack of her knuckles. He’d said she could write. And if she’d horribly misjudged and he was only being polite, he could dispose of her letter and not send a reply, and then she could avoid him whenever they both returned to the Grove for the rest of their natural lives. Simple.

_Dearest Trahearne—_ Absolutely not. _My dear friend—_ Still too much _. To my friend, Trahearne—_ That was better. 

_It is bitterly cold here in the Pass. I wish I could say that it is merely due to the season, but my norn bunkmate Helge tells me (with quite the mean laugh) that this is an unusually mild summer_ . _My bark is cracking like mud in the sun._ ( Sieran had loaned her a salve that was supposed to seal the cracks, to no avail.) _Briallen says we sylvari aren’t supposed to feel the cold, but I think that’s a heap of nonsense. I can feel it and it’s quite unpleasant, thank you very much._

_Does it get very cold in Orr? The mountains on the maps look high, even though it’s so far south. I tried to find the place where your camp is, but the copies in the novice’s library are woefully out of date. Perhaps soon I might be promoted to explorer, and be allowed to touch the good maps!_

_My magister is a sylvari as well, a fellow dusk bloom like yourself, called Sieran. I'm already quite fond of her and I think you would be too. I very much hope you are keeping well, and have found some good company on your journey to Orr._

_Enclosed is a drawing of the landscape from the view from the novice’s wing. Several courier birds perched to watch me as I was sketching this._

As she thought signing it _Your most ardent admirer_ would not go over so well, she settled for a simple _Your friend, Iyslene_. 

She addressed it _Trahearne, Firstborn of the Pale Tree, Ruins of Orr (please inquire with the Lionguard as to exact location)_ and dropped it in with the next batch of mail to be sent south with the courier birds, and went back to smother her glow with a heavy blanket--which was as much for her benefit as Charybdis’s--and tried, quite badly, to sleep.

\----------

“Mail for you, Iyslene!” said Sieran, dropping a stack of letters bound with twine on the mess table before her. Iyslene set aside her fork to make an eager grab for the package.

“You never picked up my mail for me when I was your novice,” said Explorer Verity, on Iyslene’s right, around a large mouthful of porridge.

“She would if she ever went to the mailroom,” said Iyslene, fiddling with the loop of twine. “She likes to make the birds chase her down personally.”

“It’s more fun for them that way! They like a challenge.” Sieran knocked back her cup. “Well, aren’t we the popular little sprout. Who’re they from? A secret admirer?” She leaned across the table in eager excitement. 

“If only,” said Iyslene, a little more dryly than she’d intended. “Just notes from my podmates.”

“Ah, keeping in touch with your podmates. Sweet little sapling things,” said Magister Briallen, twenty years old and the eldest amongst the Priory sylvari by a good margin. 

Most of the letters were in fact from Iyslene’s podmates, who had stayed to make their home in the Grove and surrounding wood, though a few had ventured as far as Divinity’s Reach and Lion’s Arch. Meric was back home finishing his shaper training. Gwynllia had embraced human religion and was enthusiastic in her depiction of life in the Temple of Dwayna. Perin and Rhysa were now bonded, which came of no surprise to anyone. 

And at the bottom of the stack was a thick envelope, addressed from Claw Island, in a neat, cramped, scholarly hand.

She waited until she was tucked back in the library, swatting away one of the enthusiastic tiny golems, to tear it open. 

_Dear Iyslene,_

_I was glad to receive your letter, and your lovely drawing of the Priory hillside. I almost feel as if I am there alongside you. It is, in fact, quite cold in the part of Orr I am traversing. I have grown accustomed to it, although I believe you are right—we can certainly feel it. If it interests you, I have enclosed a more accurate map of the region of Malchor's Leap and the surrounding coastline._

_Sieran and I are familiar with one another. She is an old friend, and you are in good hands with her. Please give her greetings from me, and tell her if she gets you into too much trouble I shall be cross with her._

_I hope your bark does not pain you overmuch. The alchemists in Lion’s Arch can brew you something much better, the next time you have cause to visit._

_Keep well,_

_Trahearne_

In the relative privacy of the library cubby, where a nearby trio of fellow novices were occupied in a whispered but enthusiastic game of riddles, Iyslene cupped the paper in her hands. He’d been glad. He’d been glad to receive her letter. A glow of warmth lit in her chest. 

She snatched a spare quill from her belt and scribbled her reply right away. 

_Dear Trahearne,_

_I’m afraid to tell you it’s absolutely too late. Sieran and I were in hot water before I even set foot within the Priory walls. We simply took a little detour on our journey here, but Steward Gixx was most displeased. Sieran took the brunt of it, even though I was just as much to blame as she was. But don’t be worried—we’ve been allowed to remain together as a pair, and we also found a dragonblood sword with some fascinating properties! So all’s well that ends well._

_I’ve hung your map up in the novice’s library so everyone can appreciate proper cartography. However, you neglected to mark where exactly you are on it, and what you are doing there. How does one begin to cleanse a land of an ancient and terrifying evil? Asking for a friend.  
_

_Since you are also suffering from the cold, I have persuaded the couriers to take you this scarf, which my bunkmate Charybdis taught me to make. It is fantastically ugly but I hope you get some warmth out of it, regardless._

_Also enclosed is a sketch of the dwarven ruin where Sieran and I found our sword. Seems like the sort of thing that might interest you._

_Take care of yourself!_

_Iyslene_

The next reply took quite a bit longer, and by the end Iyslene had almost given up on being the first to race out and meet the courier every morning, which earned her plenty of teasing from her bunkmates. The reason was the long string of addresses on the parcel—the little thing had passed through what looked like ten different courier outposts on its way north, not counting the hub in Lion’s Arch.

She tore it open in the courtyard, careless with excitement. 

_Dear Iyslene,_

_Though you tell me not to worry, your description is hardly reassuring. Perhaps Gixx really ought to rethink whether leaving the two of you paired. Please inform Sieran I am very cross with her and I would also like to congratulate the two of you on your exciting discovery. Perhaps I might have occasion to study this ruin for myself the next time my quest carries me north._

_My own journeys have not been so fortunate as of late. I have had little luck in finding much of anything. You ask how one might accomplish my task, and the truth is, Iyslene, if I had any idea I would tell you. It often feels impossible, perhaps because it often is impossible. But I can no more turn my back on my duty as you can to yours._

_In lieu of any better ideas, I have taken shelter in a Vigil outpost on Winterknell Island near the ruin of a Temple of Grenth, as close to the heart of Orr as I have lately dared to travel. You may find it on your map, in the westerly notch on the coastline of the Cursed Shore. Some of the temple records were sealed and by some miracle survived the centuries intact, and may be deciphered with patience._

_Perhaps, when you are finished with your studies in Durmand, they may send you on an expedition here, so you and Sieran may unearth all the enchanted swords you like._

_I received your scarf. It is kind and thoughtful and not ugly at all, and shelters me from the cold night wind very well. It is not much, but I have enclosed something for you in return. I know you loved to collect stones from around Caledon. I have been known to knit as well, on occasion._

_Your friend,_

_Trahearne_

Enclosed was a small knitted purple pouch. The stitches were perfectly tight and even, unlike Iyslene’s mess of knots. Iyslene tipped it into her hand and out tumbled a handful of gleaming stones, each no larger than a coin, shaded from russet to rosy pink to a deep, oil-slick blue, only a smidge darker than her own bark. One even looked like a lump of raw gold.

She lined them up on her tiny desk with the rest of her collection, save for the blue one, which she took to keeping in her pocket and fiddling with during exams and long lectures, until it was worn smoother from the handling. 

———-

_“_ Trahearne says hello,” Iyslene informed her mentor afterward, winding her new scarf tighter around her neck. Her gift to Trahearne was her second effort—the first she’d kept for herself, and was even more fantastically ugly, three different shades of shocking pink and lumpy as a mashed fruit.

“Does he! Isn’t that just cherry!” Sieran skipped over the uneven cave floor with endless vigor. “He didn’t pass through without coming to see me, did he?”

“He would never!” Or perhaps he might, if he wanted to be spared the mortification of Iyslene throwing herself at him again. “Alas, no. He just wrote me. But he does say he’s rather cross with the two of us.”

“Cross with me, you mean!” said Sieran. “I am nearly certain he meant me only. After all, I’m the one leading an innocent sapling astray.” 

“You’re only showing me the most efficient paths,” said Iyslene with a shake of her head. 

Sieran grinned. “Well, tell him to get up here and say so to my face, then!”

“How do the two of you know each other?” Iyslene drew her rifle as a nearby group of roving jotun roved just a bit too closely.

“Oh, everyone knows Trahearne. He comes through the Priory every half-year or so. We worked together back when I was a novice myself. Project that got me promoted to explorer! He was a little miffed about all the explosions, but we’ve got on cracking well ever since.” She gave Iyslene a sidelong glance with a little smirk. “So the two of you are exchanging letters, are you? Pen pals? That’s ever so sweet. He needs something to read that’s been written in the last century.” 

“It’s nice,” Iyslene agreed, rubbing her stiff hands together. “I got used to his company in the Grove.” 

“Iyslene _does_ have a secret admirer!”

“I do _not,”_ said Iyslene, more defensively than was necessary, only because she wished that were, in fact, the case. “We’re only friends.”

“Mmm, but that’s not all you want, is it?” Sieran was nearly gleeful. “I can feel it! You’ve got a crush on him!” She gasped. “No, even better! You’re in love!”

All her cheer disappeared when she saw Iyslene’s stricken face. “There’s no reason to be embarrassed, petal! I don’t mean to tease. I’d like to experience it for myself, someday.”

“No, it’s not that.” Iyslene fiddled with the ends of her scarf. “It’s that… I’m embarrassed because I already told him I have feelings. For him. And he, um, did not reciprocate.”

“Ohhhh.” Sieran tapped a finger against her chin. “Well. I’m sorry, dear. Here, there’s a nice flat rock. Why don’t we go sit for a while.”

Iyslene sat on the rock with her legs beneath her and told Sieran the whole story—how they met in Caithe’s home shortly after Iyslene’s own awakening, fighting the Nightmare Court in defense of Malyck, a catalogue of all her attempts at flirting, the quest to recover Riannoc’s blade, and finally her disaster at the Awakening celebration the day before she left home. 

“You poor thing, you.” Sieran slung a comforting arm over her shoulder. “If it makes you feel any better at all… I wouldn’t know, but they say it only gets better with time. It feels awful now, but soon, you’ll blossom for someone else you meet. The wonderful thing about love is that there’s always more to go around.”

“That does helps a little,” said Iyslene, even though it didn’t.

Sieran patted her back. “You know what will make you feel better? Taking some priceless ancient artifacts back from the Svanir.”

And she was right. It did. Priory work, at least the kind Sieran and Iyslene made for themselves, was a very efficient distraction. One really had to keep their attention on all the fire and steel. 

\--------

_Dear Trahearne,_

_Sieran and I have been tromping about all over the highlands here. The landscape is so very different from at home in the Grove, everything all glittering snow and harsh grey stone. We went on an expedition to the norn city of Holbraek last week to make contact with some of the elders there. I gave myself a sore neck staring at all the buildings! They like to build as tall as they are. One passerby asked me if I was edible, which was certainly a new experience, though perhaps one I am content to only collect once. (Perhaps I am, but I’ve no need to find out that way.) Enclosed is a drawing I made of the longhouses while being a goggling tourist._

_Speaking of snow, now that winter is setting in, I saw it fall for the first time! It is beautiful, despite the beastly cold. I watched it for nearly an hour. We made snow sylvari and had a snowball fight. I lost, but I’m very proud of the snow fort I made (I would have won had the opponents not declared fern turrets illegal. Sore losers)._

_You’ll be happy to hear that not only have I not received any more disciplinary action, but I have officially been promoted to explorer rank! It’s just me and Chary bunking together now. She says she doesn’t mind my glow anymore. I’ve even caught her using me as a bedside lamp a few times. Handy, no?_

_What is the landscape like in Orr where you are? I would love to see it someday,_ _maybe with you_ _and unearth as many enchanted swords as_ you _like, if it helps you with your Hunt._

_Love,_ (She dithered about this for several hours before deciding that she signed her letters to Meric and Gwynllia with love, so really it would be odd if she didn’t do the same for him.)

_EXPLORER Iyslene_

_———_

_Dear Explorer Iyslene,_

_Please accept my most heartfelt congratulations upon your promotion, which comes as no surprise. I suspect I shall be addressing my post to Magister Iyslene before long. I am likewise gladdened to hear that you enjoyed your journeys to Holbraek—no doubt a fascinating place—and that no strange norn, or otherwise, has yet classified you as edible. I hope that you continue in this state._

_The landscape of Orr. Alas, I do not share your talent as a sketch artist, so I will endeavor to describe it for you instead._

_The cities and great structures of the Orrian people remain proud and strong, barely cracked by the ravages of time, though they now stand hollow. The Orrians favored the circle in their architecture--it was their sacred shape--and the great arcs they built we use as landmarks when we navigate the remains of their roadways._

_The landscape still bears the marks of having endured the deep sea. Massive coral mounds cling to the walls of buildings. Huge waving fronds spring up from between the space between bricks in the road. Strangely enough, though they now dwell in the air, they live still. Research suggests that they too are some variant of undead, though they provide only beauty and are incapable of harm. The earth itself seems to gleam and shimmer like a prism when struck by light, as if seen through leagues of clear water._

_Make no mistake, though I describe it with something resembling fondness, due to my familiarity, it is a desolate place, marked with much sorrow. The undead who dwell here make their suffering known, and cause the same to others in turn. And yet, there is also a solemn beauty to it, a dignity that could not be rent asunder by ancient curse nor elder dragon._

_Someday, perhaps, I can show it to you as I saw in my Dream--green and ripe and blooming, flowing with fresh and pure streams. This, I think, is a landscape more worthy of you._

_With fondness,_

_Trahearne_

“Hah, do you think that bit about whether you can eat us is innuendo?” asked Briallen over Iyslene’s shoulder with a chuckle. 

“It is _rude_ to read other people’s mail without permission!” Iyslene hissed back, so loudly that she earned a scolding look from the head librarian posted nearby.

“Oh, is it? I didn’t know it was private.” Briallen’s aura radiated fond smugness.

“You’re horrible, and I am trying to study,” said Iyslene, shoving Trahearne’s letter beneath her tower of books, which was already dangerously close to toppling. The highest tome wobbled and tipped off with a heavy thunk. The librarian made an exaggerated shushing sound in Iyslene’s direction. 

“Studying what? Advanced Orrian history? Sylvari anatomy?”

She glanced back at Briallen in sudden panic. “Does it sound like innuendo?”

“Yes, Iyslene, it very much does.”

“But I’m the one who started it!” Iyslene gripped her head between her hands. “I said it first. Do you think he thought it was innuendo, too?”

“He may not have started it, but it sounds like he intends to finish it.” Briallen grinned, patting the back of Iyslene’s head, where her unruly blossom-studded roots were growing out. 

“I wish he would,” Iyslene grumbled, planting herself headfirst into the desk, where she could daydream in peace about what he might have meant by a _a landscape more worthy of you_.

_Dear Trahearne,_

_Your fondness or no, it sounds like a lovely and fascinating place, and I should like to see it for myself. I hope your encampment is keeping you in good company and that you’re looking after each other. I don’t like the thought of any risen trying to figure out if you’re edible, either! Have had you had much luck with the temple records? If nothing else, they may serve for smacking risen over the head with._

_Now that I am an official explorer, they’ve decided to entrust me with access to the more exciting laboratories. At last I have gotten my hands on some asura tech, which is an absolute delight to handle. Their mathematics are quite different than the ones I learned at home, even though Malomedies incorporated their numerical system as the foundation for ours. Briallen is there to aid me and also brag whenever I struggle. She says to tell you, and I quote directly, “Get your wilted head out of those books and come see us.” Again, direct quote._

_Arcanist Bretta keeps telling me I ought to join their forces. It is tempting, but I do like all my limbs as they are, attached to me. They are going to let me use their materials to design my very own cannon, though! It is meant to be a fusion of asura and sylvari design, although I am not sure how well I succeeded. Enclosed is a diagram, which we will build a trial model of to test with the Vigil.  
_

_Love,_

_Iyslene_

_\------------_

_Dear Iyslene,_

_Cannons are far outside my area of expertise, but if it is a design of yours, I am certain it will fulfill its function beautifully. The arcanists should be glad to have you, but limbs aside, I believe you should miss the ability to wander afield. You are well suited as an agent._

_At long last, we have managed to decipher the bulk of the scrolls. To our regret, they have no evident tactical use. However, they are of great value as a historical curiosity, as they describe the daily routines of the Orrian warrior-priests in great detail. In addition, they reference several necromantic potions and formulae, which descriptions, when cross-referenced with older records, may yet yield a full formula. Along with my own letter, I send to you a copy of a translated note one of the priestesses received from her lover, about his journey into the great city of Arah to acquire her a spring melon. It is quite humorous. Some things transcend both time and culture._

_The Priory outposts are sheltering me very well indeed. With the deciphering of the temple letters I have moved on to another encampment, nearer to Arah’s great gates, which none yet have been able to open. One of the Priory Council himself has been studying the mechanism. When I inquired as to your and Sieran’s well-being, the Councillor referred to the two of you as “that pair of incorrigible troublemakers.” Should I have cause for concern?_

_With fondness,_

_Trahearne_

_PS. Please excuse the ink prints. One of the cats knocked over the inkwell, then pranced through the spill and across the bottom of the page._

_————_

“Your ink is going to freeze,” said Sieran in a teasing singsong as Iyslene struggled with her quill. The high wind in the Dredgehaunt cliffs sliced through their little camp like a keen knife. 

“No, it isn’t,” Iyslene replied, carrying the same tune. “I have a new formulation from the quartermaster. And I only had to beg a little bit!”

“Who’re you writing to? No, let me guess, but the first two don’t count.”

“I believe _I’m_ the one who’s supposed to say first two don’t count, and I say none count.”

“Still got it bad, eh?” Sieran sighed. “Do you think there’s any hope of him changing his mind?”

Iyslene ruffled the pages of her journal. She’d spent much of her own time pondering the subject, decoding which fragment of his letters might signify something beyond simple friendship, and come up with nothing. He was kind and generous with her because he was a kind and generous sort of person. “No. I don’t think so. But he’s always perfectly friendly.”

“Well. Having a friend is well and good. But I know just the cure for you, which is finding someone fresh and new to moon over.”

That would be well and good if the thought of mooning after anyone else didn’t give Iyslene a heavy, sinking feeling, as if she’d tried to go swimming in the quaggan village with her pockets full of rocks. Which she had. 

She fanned the ink in her journal and changed the subject. “What about yourself? Anyone caught your eye lately? You felt veeeeeery interested in that Vigil escort we saw passing through camp.”

“Oh, him! He cut such a dashing figure, didn’t he?” Sieran sighed deeply. “Laranthir of the Wild. Very dreamy. I don’t suppose we’ll ever see him again.”

“You could write him a letter,” Iyslene suggested. “I’ll let you borrow my special ink.”

“You know what the two of us need? A little vacation to Lion’s Arch. An educational sabbatical… for the study of matters of the heart.”

Iyslene laughed, tucking her journal under one arm. “The two of us, on a vacation? We’d only end up embroiled in some kind of scheme involving a secret society and the illegal dragon artifacts market. Half the city would be on fire by the end.”

This only encouraged Sieran, her ever-bright aura flaring with excitement. “Yes, and maybe we find forbidden love with some of the secret society agents! Come on, Iyslene, you know you want to!” She jiggled Iyslene’s arm.

Iyslene shook her head. “If you go after Wintersday, I’ll come with you. And I’m bringing my fireproof apron.”

_Dear Trahearne,_

_I am writing this time not from the Priory, but an outpost in Steelbrachen, high in the mountains. Sieran and I have just completed a mission of diplomacy to the quaggan. Jormag’s influence has been encroaching on their homeland. We weren’t able to do anything to stop it, despite our best efforts, but we could keep them protected while their young hatched, and help them retreat to a gateway so they can make a new home elsewhere. They are passing through Lion’s Arch, so if you are doing the same, this will explain the hordes of quaggan._

_They are a sweet and lovely people. I’ve never felt more welcome in a new place, even if I don’t have much of a taste for all the fish and cold greens they eat! They’ve nothing but hope for establishing a new home in a strange land. As long as they are safe and together, they say, all’s right as rain. I hope to be able to visit them soon, wherever they’ve settled._

_Speaking of Lion’s Arch, do you know yet when you’ll be passing through to here, or to home? Maybe for Wintersday?_

_Enclosed is a sketch of the newly hatched quaggan children playing chase. Not so different from saplings!_

_Thinking of you,_ (And when wasn’t she?)

_Iyslene_

_P.S. There are cats in Orr???! Terrifying yet lovable risen cats?? Please elaborate on that, posthaste!_

_P.P.S. I tried to read the melon story in the library, wasn’t able to contain my laughter, got kicked out. I did a dramatic reading later in the mess hall, to great acclaim._

_————_

_My Dear Iyslene_ , (She obsessed about this addition of a simple two letters for days on end.)

_Allow me to welcome you to the honorary ranks of quaggan-friends. We have heard news of the ice dragon’s advance even here in remote Orr, and it relieves me to know they are safe, thanks to your efforts. You might like to know that your sketch has been hung on the wall of the expedition leader’s shelter, to encourage morale._

_There are two specific cats in Orr. They belong to the expedition leader’s assistant, Helena, a brilliant scholar and ancient linguist who insisted she could not work without her faithful companions. They are called Sun and Moon, and they are absolute horrors and beloved of the entire camp. Moon has taken a bit of a shine to me and follows me while I am about my business. It brightens my day, even when he chooses to knock over my inkwells._

_Unfortunately, I do not believe I shall be returning to the mainland with any speed. The latest mechanics expert believes he can crack open the gates of Arah. I will remain here to see if he succeeds, though I am doubtful, and in the event of failure will return to the Straits of Devastation to catalogue the movement of the risen hordes. I do not expect to return to the Grove for another two months at least. By this time, I fully expect you to have been promoted to magister, at which time I may offer you congratulations in person._

_Yours,_

_Trahearne_

_———-_

Wintersday arrived in a hurry and on the back of huge and ferocious storms. The heavy blizzards making road traffic impossible dampened the celebrations, but only a bit—the quartermasters had begun preparing early.

Maybe it was all the brandy in the cider, but Iyslene was feeling bold enough to address her Wintersday letter: 

_To My Dearest Trahearne,_

_I am writing to wish you a Merry Wintersday! I was expecting the festivities to be rather small, since it is a human holiday, which was silly of me. We’ve had celebrations lasting all the week long. Historian Cratulla even gave up on lecturing and we all made cocoa and spice bread and played counters instead. Sieran’s favorite tradition is the mistletoe, which she has been hanging on every doorframe in sight. None of them are safe to linger in anymore._

_I wish you were here so I could have given you some of my homemade spiced cider. Briallen taught me her special recipe. There’s only a_ little _bit of brandy in it. (And by a little I mean an entire gallon jug.) I received my first and best Wintersday present, which is that I have been promoted to magister! I now merit my own room, which is strange but nice. When I get lonely Chary and I can have sleepovers._

_I hope you have someone to celebrate with, even all the way in Orr, and that you’re giving yourself the gift of some rest this Wintersday. Your responsible and dutiful nature is_ ~~_what I love about you_ ~~ _one of your best qualities, but you deserve to take time off and enjoy yourself every now and then. This is one of those times._

_Enclosed is your gift from me. In the sachet are spices to make your own cider. Caithe told me you like it! Mine is better, but I think it simply improves the more brandy you put in it. The courier service informs me in no uncertain terms that they will not transport libations for me, but maybe the Lionguard can help you out with that. And the chime I made myself. If you hang it in the wind, it will sing for you._ (She was very proud of her work on the little fern chime, which was beastly to craft and had taken the better part of several days to get the mechanism just right.) _I’ll have you know I was going to have it record my squeaky and off-key singing voice, but I decided to spare you. You’re welcome._

_There is also some nip for the cats, freshly grown from my window box, now that I merit my own window. Mine isn’t on the side with the best view over the pass, but the hills to the east are lovely all the same. Here is a drawing done this morning as the sunrise struck the snow._

_Merry Wintersday!_

_All my love,_ (It was definitely the brandy.)

_MAGISTER Iyslene_

Iyslene was late to the Priory’s annual Wintersday dance because she was checking the postboxes. She had already checked the postboxes three times that week, and was not truly expecting to find anything else—mail was slow since most of the couriers were off duty. But at the last second, one of them had shoved a travel-worn little parcel into her slot.

_My Dear Iyslene,_

_Please excuse the brevity of this letter but I am writing quickly to make sure I can hand this off to the courier in time so it can get to you. I hope your first Wintersday is a joyous one._

_Merry Wintersday,_

_Trahearne_

Nestled in several layers of paper and cloth was a golden chain hung with a ring of polished dark stone, set with tiny glittering jewels, like an astronomer’s map. A second note lay tucked inside with it: _It was tradition in classical Orr to exchange these star pendants on auspicious occasions. The constellation featured is the Lady of the Wood, who promised verdant growth, fair tidings, and safe journeys. It made me think of you._

Iyslene cupped the pendant in her hand, watching the stones flicker in the dim, guttering mailroom lantern, imagining Trahearne on some distant shore, holding a little piece of history and thinking of her. From somewhere in the distance came a crash of fallen glassware and a tinkle of laughter, startling her from her reverie. She slipped it over her head with a sigh, then slid back into the bright hallway. 

“There you are!” Sieran clapped Iyslene on the back as she joined their little cluster by the great hall door. “We were starting to worry we’d have to go hunting for you.” Her eyes widened as she glanced at Iyslene’s pendant. “My, my, what have we here?”

“Orrian treasure!” said Iyslene, fiddling with the stone ring.

“Are we going to dance or not!” Charybdis shuffled from foot to massive foot as she edged towards the spinning crowds. The great hall was a wild thrash of bodies, all throwing themselves every which way. Unlike the Grove, Iyslene’s fellow scholars did not appear to believe in organized dances. 

Though Iyslene’s unfocused gaze fell on the dancers, her mind was quite someplace else, half a world and half a year away. The last time she had danced with someone, at the awakening celebration for the Firstborn, the day before she left home for the Priory.

She’d attended a handful of awakening parties a few months before, and they usually featured cinnamon bread and incendiary devices, just the way she liked them. It had not prepared her for the entirety of her species within the known world descending on the Grove in a great tide, returning home for the most important and, thus far, only, sylvari cultural holiday. She spent the first hour watching, transfixed, from one of the high boughs, swinging her legs as she took in the glittering, pulsing web spinning beneath her. From above, the dancers undulated as one massive creature, the ebb of their glows in perfect harmony. The beat of the huge drums and stomp of feet throbbed through her chest and all the way down to her fingertips. 

She joined the dance herself, first with her laughing podmate Rhysa, and then, after she found it absolutely delightful, with every partner she could find within arm’s reach. She danced until her arms and legs were heavy and satisfyingly sore, danced until she finally collapsed in a giggling heap on the nearest mound of soft moss, panting and fanning herself, before resting her head on Meric’s leg.

Though the night was half over, the celebrations showed no sign of slowing—though a few pairs and triads were beginning to slip away, drawing one another into the privacy of the shadows at the Grove’s edge. One such pair hadn’t moved quite far enough out of view, and from the corner of her eye she could see their bodies twining together, mouths against one another in an entirely different sort of dance. The sight of them filled her with a new and strange heat. 

All aches forgotten, restless, she glanced at the mossy ledge that served as a dais, where the Firstborn had spent most of the evening being mobbed by admirers. Now, only two remained, Caithe and Trahearne, who sat side by side on the ground, talking with their heads close together. Trahearne wore a quiet, gentle smile. It occurred to Iyslene that it was the first time she had seen him look content. 

As she watched, her own Luminary, Aife, peeled from the crowd to beckon to Caithe with a shake of her violet leaves. Caithe waved her off, smiling, but finally relented and allowed Aife to grasp her hand, leading her into the fray. Trahearne remained alone. 

“Why isn’t he dancing?” Iyslene asked aloud.

“Who?” Perin slurred, squinting vaguely in Iyslene’s direction. 

“Firstborn Trahearne.”

“Oh, him? He never does.” Rhysa shrugged a shoulder, displacing the slim vine holding her dress aloft. Perin plucked at it, laughing. “Always sits off by himself at these sort of things.”

Iyslene watched his usual solemn expression return as he glanced over the crowd, gazing off at nothing in particular. “I think I’m going over there.”

“You what?” asked Meric, who she’d thought was asleep, with a start.

“I’m going over there!” she said as she pushed herself off the moss and back into the fray.

It was hard going against the rising tide of the dancers. She caught a stray elbow here and there, and both gave and received a string of loud apologies. Caithe and Aife whirled her along for a few dizzy steps. “Step lively, Valiant!” Aife called with a laugh. Caithe grinned, radiant, as lively herself as Iyslene had ever seen her. 

At long last, she heaved herself, huffing, over the lip of the ledge. Trahearne glanced up with a start. “Hello, Valiant.”

Iyslene struggled to her feet and clasped her hands behind her. “Iyslene, if you please.”

Just the slightest bit of that open smile crept back into his face, and Iyslene felt as though her glow flared just a bit brighter. “Hello, Iyslene. Are you enjoying yourself?”

His aura was tinged with a deep, quiet weight, which she brushed against as she drew closer. “You feel a bit sad,” she blurted, twisting her hands together.

He blinked in slow surprise. “I suppose I am.”

“Is it because you’re leaving home again?”

“Coming or going, it’s all much the same,” he said quietly. “I feel out of place in the Grove when I do return. Sometimes I think Caithe is the only one who’s happy to see me.”

She thought briefly of gesturing at all the people who had come to see him, and instead insisted, “But I’m happy to see you.”

“That is kind of you to say.” He gestured to the pile of soft earth beside him. “Would you like to sit?”

She shook her head. “Actually, I came to ask you if you’d like to dance with me.”

He shook his head in return, still smiling. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a dancer.”

“You forget I’ve seen you on the battlefield. You’re perfectly graceful.” 

“You’re a born diplomat, Valiant,” he said ruefully.

She raised a fist. “Iyslene. And just pretend I’m a Nightmare Courtier you’re trying to nonlethally subdue.”

He chuckled, shaking his head again. “I’ve found the ability doesn’t translate well. But I suppose there can’t be much harm in one song.”

Iyslene extended a hand towards him, fluttering with a sudden nervousness. Silly. She’d never been this afraid fighting the Court.

He took it, and she laced their fingers together, surprised at her own nerve. How had she known to do that? She must have dreamed it, in the dream before waking. After a beat of silence, his fingers tightened over hers. Iyslene felt his leaden aura lift, just a little, and wondered if he could sense her own, rippling with anxiety and excitement. She helped him to his feet and led him into the dance.

They attracted a bit more attention than she was expecting. The crowd parted around them like the eye of a storm, a few openly staring. Poor Meric was gaping across the field at them, openmouthed. 

Trahearne seemed at a loss, but when she wrapped a hand around his waist and raised their clasped hands, he was content to let her lead him. Which wouldn’t have been a problem twenty minutes ago. She was finding the steps a bit more difficult when she was distracted by the supple bend of his back beneath her palm. That hadn’t been a problem with any of her previous partners. 

He was, just as she’d insisted, a perfectly fine dancer. “You lied to me,” she said with a grin. “You are good at this.”

“Only when I have a skilled partner to rely on.” He glanced at the space around them, forehead furrowing. 

“Do you want to stop?”

He smiled again, and she almost tripped over her own feet like a clumsy newborn sapling. “No. I promised you a dance.”

Eventually, the novelty wore off, and a few of their fellows even gave him a little cheer. Aife came up for an affectionate pat on the shoulder and Niamh appeared to give him a full slap on the back with a loud whoop. Caithe winked at the two of them over Aife’s shoulder, so quickly Iyslene wondered if she’d really seen it.

The first dance ended, but they didn’t return to the dais. Instead, he let her stumble the both of them through a quicker step, even chuckling as they stepped on one another’s feet. They came apart, then together again, circling around the edge of the whirling crowd. “Do you leave tomorrow?” she asked.

“Yes. For Lion’s Arch, and then to Orr by ship.”

“So do I. I’m a bit nervous,” she admitted as they changed positions. He took a turn leading, though he let her set the pace. “Does it get any easier?”

“It does,” he admitted. “Though it never leaves entirely.”

Her nerves weren’t only at the thought of leaving her home behind. One day left meant one more day to try and do something about the fact that she fantasized about the two of them as one of those couples off in the dim boughs, entwined. “When are you next coming home?”

“Oh. I am not certain. I return at least twice a year, though when I cannot say.”

“A whole half year!” Iyslene missed a step. “But that’s… forever!”

“It seems that way, as a sapling. The time passes quickly. It will for you, too, as you make your way out in the world.”

“Still. I hope you come back soon.” His brows raised, aura questioning. “Because I’ll miss you! And so we can do things like this together!”

Trahearne’s aura shifted into something nearer to contentment, shaded with a tinge of joy. “Iyslene?” 

“Mmhm?” He was smiling again, full and open, and she was going to lead them right into another dancer’s back. 

“Thank you.”

As the music slowed, Iyslene stepped closer into his arms, resting her head against his chest. He started in surprise. But he didn’t pull away. 

They swayed together until the song faded. It was nearly dawn, to Iyslene’s surprise, and the dancers were scattering like blown seed pods, out to scavenge for food or stumble, yawning, to their homes. Still more left hand-in-hand, heads leaning on shoulders, eager for privacy. 

Now or never. Act with wisdom, but act, Iyslene told herself sternly, though the Teaching most likely was never intended for her purposes, and said, “Trahearne… I have something to tell you. Do you mind coming with me?”

“Of course,” he said, mouth tightening. 

“It’s not bad news!” she said with a nervous laugh as they ducked beneath an archway of huge red orchids in full bloom. The burble of the crowd faded to a distant murmur, and the light with it, until the only glow came from their own bodies, violet and crimson, painting the flowers an even more brilliant red. 

“What is it you wanted to tell me?” Despite her assurances otherwise, he was clearly still nervous. 

Their hands were still clasped. Iyslene drew his close, guided his palm flat against her chest, just above her breasts. This, too, she must have learned in the Dream before waking, from others’ dreams of love. “I. I have feelings for you,” she blurted, finally, because it was the truth.

“What?” He blinked, wide-eyed, aura bright with surprise. 

Iyslene cleared her throat. “I, uh, thought I was being obvious about it? With all the flirting?” All the compliments, all the little touches—she liked to think that what she lacked in finesse she made up for in enthusiasm. “But maybe... I wasn’t?”

“No, I… ah…” His thumb brushed against her bare bark. “I, ahem, understood that part. But I didn’t think…” He trailed off, at a loss. 

“Trahearne, I—“ He looked down at her, mouth slightly parted, eyes still wide. Oh, sod it. She gripped his shoulders and stood on her toes and moved in to kiss him on the mouth.

He caught her face, gently, in both hands. They stood like that for a long moment, she still on her toes, their faces a handspan apart. That contemplative little frown crept back onto his face, his violet glow dim.

Iyslene lowered herself back on to her heels. Oh, she’d bungled this well and good. Shame and embarrassment hadn’t stung nearly so keenly in the Dream.

Trahearne dropped one hand, but left the other cupping her chin, absently stroking a thumb across her cheek before he finally let it fall. “I am sorry, Iyslene,” he said calmly and softly. 

“Nothing to be sorry for,” said Iyslene, slightly shrill. “I’m the one who ought to apologize. Got myself quite the wrong impression.”

“No. Don’t be sorry. It isn’t your fault.” The fronds of his face furrowed in regret. 

“Well. Sorry to have. Done that. Um. I. I think I’ll just go back to the Grove.” She turned, gesturing in the vague direction of her podmates. 

“Your friends must be missing you. And Iyslene?” She glanced over her shoulder. “Thank you for the dance.”

“You’re welcome,” said Iyslene, quite at a loss for anything else, and gave an awkward little curtsy, and turned heel and trotted straight back to the center of the Grove, where her dwindling little cluster of podmates were drinking spiced nectar. She carried on right past them. 

“Iyslene! Where are you going?” Rhysa called. 

“I’m going to go cover myself with dirt and stay there forever!” she responded over her shoulder. And she kept walking. She walked until she reached the nearest beach, where she thought about covering herself with sand but instead tossed shells into the incoming tide as it rose with the dawn.

And the next day, she’d left for the Priory. 

——--

“Iyslene?” She was abruptly brought back to focus by Brannen, one of her fellow sylvari explorers—only she wasn’t an explorer anymore—waving a hand in front of her face. “You all right?”

She shook her head. “Perfectly fine! Sorry, what did you say?”

“I was trying to ask if you wanted to dance with me.” He shrugged a shoulder towards the floor. “Well? What do you say?”

Brannen was nice-looking, tall and sturdy and a pleasant orange color with a pale glow, which was presently flaring as he offered a hand to her. And Iyslene did love dancing.

Not only was he more than decent at it, he whirled her around and lifted her in the air until she shrieked with laughter, the room and everyone in it spinning wildly. 

“I just need a moment’s rest,” she assured him, giggling, as she stumbled towards a hallway where she could collapse in peace. “Just a moment! I promise!”

He went to get her a cupful of cider while she got her strength back, and as she finished it, pointed one finger up at the ceiling. There hung one of Sieran’s mistletoe bunches. “Look at that.”

Iyslene tilted her head back. “She really did get everywhere, didn’t she?”

He shrugged with a teasing grin. “You know what the rules are, right?”

And, well, why not? He was nice and he was handsome and he liked her, which was obvious by his aura. There were worse ways to pass the evening.

It was pleasant enough, for a time, allowing his hands and lips to roam over her neck and thighs. She met his touch with an academic curiosity, rising to meet him, guiding his fingers. But there was no avoiding the fact that her greatest response came from imagining someone else’s hands and mouth when she closed her eyes. 

He paused for a moment for breath. “I’ve got my room free for the night. Do you want to—“

She lay a gentle hand on his chest. “Brannen. I’m sorry, I can’t.” She flinched at his crestfallen expression. “It wouldn’t be very nice to you.”

“On the contrary,” he said with a tilted smile. “I think it would be _very_ nice to me.”

“It’s just that I’d be thinking of someone else.” She fiddled with her new amulet. 

“Oh,” said Brannen, understanding and then disappointment shadowing his face. “I see.”

Iyslene shrugged helplessly. “I’m sorry. I do like you, Brannen.”

“I know.” He smiled again, still crooked, and stepped away from her. “Let me know if you change your mind?”

“You’ll be the first to know,” she assured, still playing with the stone ring, and watched him slip back into the crowd. Her aura must be brittle as glass. Was this what Trahearne had felt, on that night all those months ago?

She didn’t much feel like sleeping, by herself or with anyone else. She was awake to watch the winter's first dawn over the snow from her new window. 

\------

_To My Dear Magister Iyslene,_

_As I write to you, there is a pot of bubbling cider over the campfire, and I cannot wait to sample it. I’m not sure how you got your hands on the spice blend Caithe prefers, but I admire your persistence. At the same time, the wind is rising and your chime is singing to the setting sun. I have been hanging it from my tent every night when striking camp. If the above has not made it clear, I am very grateful for your gifts and have been enjoying them greatly._

_I am glad to know your first Wintersday was indeed a happy one, and that you were gifted with your well-deserved promotion. Rest assured that everyone in the Grove will be proud. You ought to be proud of yourself, as well._

_I had a pleasant Wintersday myself. On the journey back east to the Straits, I passed upon a hidden caravan of the Order of Whispers, who were generous enough to welcome me into their midst. In exchange, I gave some of your catnip to the resident charr, so it has gone to good use._

_Please do not worry for me. I am content enough. You know yourself the burden of the Hunt. But we press onward, as we must._

_I hope to see you soon._

_Love,_

_Trahearne_

“Iyslene! Looks like we’ll be making that journey to Lion’s Arch after all, though it won’t be on educational sabbatical.” Sieran waved a sheaf of papers in Iyslene’s direction. “We’re on assignment! Off to visit a researcher in the city! Isn’t that just cherry!”

Iyslene folded the letter with care, tucked it into her vest, and forced a smile. “Just cherry, Si. Just cherry.”

**Author's Note:**

> Whatever could they be going to Lion's Arch for, I wonder?


End file.
